A more than hundred-and-fifty-year-old ballet, Coppélia, perpetuates its youthful charm in the new production of Ballet de l’Opéra National du Capitole, held in April 2025 in Toulouse. Jean-Guillaume Bart, a former étoile of the Paris Opera Ballet, choreographed his version of this ballet with a team of artists who fully shared his vision of a tradition-minded, yet contemporaneously energetic, romantic comedy. Bart’s team included Antoine Fontaine (stage sets), David Belugou (costumes), François Menou (lighting), and, not least, a talented group of dancers from the Ballet of the Opéra National du Capitole.

Bart’s choice of Coppélia for his new choreographic creation seems justified. This ballet is a cornerstone of the French classical tradition, set to genuinely danceable music by Léo Delibes. Premiered in May 1870, the ballet has never disappeared from the national repertoire. Coppélia has continuously attracted French choreographers and sustained numerous stagings, including those that twisted its plot toward modern and postmodern contexts. Rebranding the original message or deviating from the academic vocabulary of movement does not interest Bart, who daringly seeks novelty and freshness through a thorough reading of Coppélia’s original story in the tradition of the French school of ballet. He does so with an open heart.

The ballet’s original libretto took inspiration from E.T.A. Hoffmann’s novella The Sandman, yet without delving into its sinister, horror-infused tone. It is curious that two of the brightest and most joyful ballets of the nineteenth century—Coppélia and The Nutcracker—are based on some of Hoffmann’s scariest stories. Charles Nuitter, Coppélia’s original librettist, understood well the modalities of this art. He based the libretto on Hoffmann’s idea of a man-made machine resembling a human so convincingly that it could fool the desirous. The encounter between the natural and the artificial proved genuinely suitable for ballet, whose aesthetic of unnatural, exaggerated bodily positions becomes believable on stage. The confusion between illusion and reality, a hallmark of Romantic inspiration, transforms into a jolly comedy of manners in this ballet. Staging Coppélia in 1870, just before the inglorious end of Napoleon III’s reign, closed the chapter on Romantic ballet in France.

The story unfolds in a Cockaigne-like village situated perhaps in Galicia, Silesia, or any other remote corner of Europe, far from industrial hustle and political strife. The villagers are cheerful and goodhearted, dancing as naturally as they breathe. Even the Bourgmestre and his perky wife govern through dance. Into this world appear strangers: Coppelius, an inventor and (in Bart’s version) a ballet master in exile, and his "daughter" Coppélia. The doll, with enamel eyes, is a creation of the learned Coppelius, who willingly deceives the simple-hearted villagers. Coppélia attracts attention with her poise and polished manners but ignores all friendly gestures from the local youth led by Swanilda and Franz, a soon-to-be-married couple. Franz is apparently unable to resist Coppélia’s charms, prompting Swanilda to summon her wit and will to rescue her future marriage. Through courageous plotting, she enters Coppelius’s house and reveals the fraud, to the joy of her friends. Swanilda reluctantly forgives Franz’s momentary infidelity, and the community celebrates their marriage. This transparent and functional plot carries the ballet’s enduring charm and its ability to create plausible characters through dance.

Bart gently reconfigures the plot. His choreographic vision is grounded in the poetics of nineteenth-century dance, where characters’ emotions are expressed through duets and variations, amplified by the corps de ballet’s pas d’action. The choreographer benefits from brief but communicative pantomimes and balletic gestures that flow naturally from dance. With Bart’s attentive handling, the transparent plot gains rich nuance.

The current production affirms that Coppélia, like its earlier sibling La Fille mal gardée, does not respond well to heavy plot modifications or psychological overburdening. Tamara Karsavina, one of the great Russian ballerinas of the early twentieth century, played a vital advisory role in Frederick Ashton’s 1950s revival of La Fille mal gardée. As a student at the Imperial Theatre School, she had seen the legendary Virginia Zucchi in the role of Lise and remembered her powerful interpretation of dance and pantomime. Karsavina encouraged Ashton, as Ivor Guest noted, to retain the charm of innocence and simplicity throughout the production.

Nurtured in the classical tradition of the Paris Opera Ballet, Bart understands the artistic value of innocence in reviving nineteenth-century repertoire. He believes in the vital power of the classics, once liberated from the jaded formality of movement and infused with sincere, natural emotion from dancer-actors. Classical ballet, in his view, remains a theatre where roles are not merely executed through strict pas but brought to life through music and movement. Bart finds a trove of choreographic potential in Delibes’s symphonically structured scores—predating Tchaikovsky. In 2011, he created La Source for Paris Opera Ballet, originally produced in 1866 by Delibes and Ludwig Minkus, with a libretto by Nuitter and choreography by Arthur Saint-Léon. That same team, minus Minkus, would create Coppélia four years later.

Creating Coppélia for the Ballet of the Opéra National du Capitole, a company of roughly thirty dancers, allowed Bart to explore the ballet’s theatrical potential fully. A staging of this scale required every dancer—soloist and corps alike—to maintain a vivid stage presence beyond mere technical display. The anonymous uniformity of the corps de ballet gave way to distinct characterization, especially in the six couples representing Swanilda and Franz’s friends. Bart’s mastery of French technique shone brightly, not for virtuosity alone, but in fostering partnership and theatrical expression. The engaging storytelling, danced gestures, and expressive pantomime invited the audience in. Rarely in ballet does the public so openly sympathize with the heroine, laugh at the hero’s mishaps, or pity the deceived antagonist. Yet this production drew those reactions, amplified by the warm, village-fair atmosphere animated by the comic, kindhearted Bourgmestre and his wife.

Considering the stage scale and illusionistic painted sets (Bart prefers these to mixed-media backdrops), the choreographer demonstrates strong visual sensibility in arranging group, duo, and solo sequences. In the pas d’action for Swanilda’s and Franz’s friends, arranged largely in sets of six dancers, movement direction, symmetry, and counterbalance are so thoughtfully designed that the possibilities of a classically organized corps become newly appreciable. Bart energizes the character dances, reminding us that nineteenth-century ballet prized academic pointe technique and folkloric styles equally.

From the outset, Bart channels his choreography toward building characters. The famed elegance of French footwork is enriched by expressive upper-body movement and head placement, adding subtle detail. The legacy of Arthur Saint-Léon remains strong, but Bart does not aim to recreate the past. Rather, each step in Coppélia is newly built by a contemporary choreographer with a vast thesaurus of movement, crafted for today’s dancers. While some movements evoke Saint-Léon, Bournonville, or Petipa, the choreography is never archaeological.

Bart pays homage to nineteenth-century ballet by transforming Coppelius from traveling magician to exiled ballet master—a savant of the body and lonely inventor of ballet magic. His costume, hunched posture, and disheveled hair evoke Jules Perrot, the French choreographer for the Russian Imperial Theatres, whom Edgar Degas immortalized in his ballet class paintings. Coppelius’s character deepens in Act II, when Swanilda and her friends infiltrate his home. He creates mechanical dolls who resemble characters from Le Corsaire, La Sylphide, and Paquita. Posters on the wall reinforce the witty reference: academic ballet is both art and artifice.

In true comedy-of-errors fashion, Coppelius mistakes Swanilda for his cherished doll and teaches her steps from Spanish and Scottish dances. The real girl feigns mechanical perfection, performing difficult pas until the truth is revealed, disillusioning both master and Franz. Coppelius reappears in Act III, carrying his lifeless doll to the village celebration. His gestures brim with melancholy: the dream of a living statue remains unfulfilled, and he must concede that a true dancer surpasses any mechanical imitation.

At the performance I attended, Kayo Nakazato danced Swanilda and Philippe Solano portrayed Franz. Minoru Kaneko and Solène Monnereau danced the Bourgmestre and his wife with generous charm. Juliette Itou made the doll Coppéliacredible, while Jérémy Leydier brought touching sympathy to Coppelius. Nakazato’s Swanilda was assertive and quick-witted, shown in her confident pointe work. Yet her tenderness toward Franz seemed lacking; more lyricism and sentiment in the Act III adagio would have enriched the emotional arc. Solano’s Franz was believably boyish, sincere, and buoyant. Though not always secure in the wedding variation, his broad, generous movements made him appealing.

The wedding pas de deux adagio is choreographically rich, filled with nuanced exchanges—promenades, lifts, and pirouettes. Swanilda’s variation challenges any choreographer due to its many precedents. Bart treats it as part of an evolving tradition, incorporating terre-à-terre whispers requiring elegant restraint. Her coda includes a clever series of pirouettes in place of the flashy fouettés that often sacrifice artistry for spectacle.

The new Coppélia in Toulouse sustained a spirit of joyful innocence. Madame Karsavina would likely have approved of the production from the opening to its final image, where Swanilda’s friends form an arched port de bras to present her to Franz. This organic staging owes much to Belugou’s richly ornamented yet unobtrusive costumes and Menou’s atmospheric lighting. The Opéra National du Capitole’s orchestra, conducted by Nicolas André, supported the onstage action with grace. One hopes this charming, lyrical production will travel beyond Toulouse. Jean-Guillaume Bart’s Coppélia reaffirms the enduring potential of Romantic comedy in dance theatre.